


On the Ground

by Organic_heart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Organic_heart/pseuds/Organic_heart
Summary: Cecilia invites her newest allies in galactic conquest to her family’s ancestral home to celebrate.
Relationships: Peytov/Tavi, Rick/Tavi





	1. Chapter 1

Cecilia had been ecstatic for weeks over the prospect of this new alliance with...oh hell he hadn’t really been listening. She was always excited about some new planet,some new resource she had acquired. It all blurred together after a few hundred years honestly. He was very proud of her though. So proud that he had agreed to host these new allies of hers for 4 days. He just had to keep Sommer in check or out of sight for 4 days of boring treaty and trade talks, a few perfunctory dinners and dances, and that was it. He could do that. He could do that especially for her. 4 days starting now. He was wondering if he could count down the hours and minutes as he rounded the hall towards the parlor where she and one of her guests waited. He could hear his beloved daughter's voice and a small laugh and then..

No.  
No  
No.

There were only a few things Rick truly hated in his long unlife. Corn on the cob,being called “Vee”, and the man currently sipping his finest brandy while smiling charmingly at his granddaughter.

“ There you are father!” Cecilia smiled and took his hand leading him in and handing him a glass.  
“ Grand Chancellor Salmant, this is my father Father, Count Rick.” The smarmy fucker bowed with a smile.  
“ It is so nice to finally meet you,your grace! You must be who Lady Cecilia inherited her love of conquest from.” He sipped his brandy with what might have been the multiverse’s most infuriating smile.

“ Father much prefers conquest of a different sort. “ Cecilia replied “ that said, will you be bringing a companion to dinner tonight? I need to tell Cook and the staff how many to seat.” She poured him a glass of his own.

“ No, I won’t be darling, perhaps another time. “ he was busy imagining what Salmant would look like with a brandy glass through his left eye.

“ The Emperor will arrive in under half a rotation. I’m to make their apologies for the late arrival, but as you know the business of empire rarely keeps a regular schedule amenable to dinners.” Rick was ripped from his reverie of ways he could brutalize him with a serving tray.  
“ The emperor?” He repeated  
“ Yes, their highness will be here shortly. To stay the length of the holiday. They do so look forward to meeting you Lady.”  
Rick downed the rest of his glass in one gulp.

“ Certainly, I’d be happy to show you Lord Chancellor.” Cecilia turned to Rick and gave a small bow “ I’ll see you at dinner father.”  
Peytov bowed just a hair more deeply than was strictly required “ A pleasure meeting you, my lord”

Right before they were out of earshot Rick could hear Peytov “ And if it wouldn’t be much trouble, your grace, might I see my rooms as well? I wouldn’t want there to be any unfortunate mix ups.”

The “ like last time “ was left just for Rick alone to supply.


	2. Dungeons and Dentists

The suite of rooms was perfect of course, all plush velvets, silks and shining marble surfaces. He idly wondered if the Emperor would mind if he made use of the obscenely large bathtub in their suite. He peered into it, it had to be at least 200 centimeters deep, it was more a small pool then a bathtub. He tried to imagine them in it, feet planted firmly on the bottom head and shoulders the only thing poking out and a very annoyed expression at their wet hair plastered to their face. He would definitely have to ask to use it, or see if another suite and a similar one available.   
He went through the small door that separated their rooms. His was much smaller, and at one point had been very obviously meant for a servant, judging by the bells lining the wall above the door, their strings leading into the other suites small study,the bedroom proper and the bath. Over time the room had obviously been upgraded to be a proper guest room. Either way it was quite the improvement over his accommodation the last time he was here. Drugged and tossed in the dungeon. Not even the real dungeon. With the proper instruments for torture and maiming and trauma. No, it was a fucking storage closet repleat with mops and buckets, cleaning agents, and rags. Peytov had a long and storied history of being captured and tossed into various dungeons to be tortured. It had to happen...what at least once every 3 months? He fancied himself a bit of a dungeon connoisseur at this point honestly, a torture afficienado.   
But to be thrown into a closet and then forgotten about completely? He was just as surprised as the small horned demon when it opened the door and Peytov simply handed him a mop and bucket. He might have been a captive but he had manners. Over the next few days the various devils, demons and imps simply got used to the strange man in their storage cupboard that handed them things. Eventually he made out that though the Count had ordered his imprisonment, he had not specified where, or what they were supposed to even do with him, and as all the normal cells were in use, he was tossed into the only other place that locked from the outside. Eventually they stopped locking the door at all and as long as he was around to get things from the taller shelves as needed he was left to roam about the dungeon. Eventually a wide eyed servant boy was summoned from upstairs to bring him a real cot and some food. Peytov made sure to share the platter of food and pitcher of wine with his new found demonic friends.  
Though being thrown into a broom closet was an insult, it had worked out in the end, by the time he had been summoned back upstairs to attend his master Peytov spoke their language, knew their names, and had a fairly good grasp of the going on in the castle both above and below.   
Peytov fixed his hair in the vanity mirror, he wondered if he could make a trip down to see them all this time. Did Yog-brugga ever get the disagreement with his brother-in-law over the cart of entrails sorted out? What about Naz-modi and her spawn wanting to be an orthodontist instead of a void with too many eyes and mouths that haunted widows nightmares?

The clock on the mantle chimed at the same time as his watch alerted him that the emperor would soon be arriving. Picking an umbrella from the stand he made his way to the newly created landing pad out past the statue garden.


	3. Chapter 3

Setting the umbrella to dry at the top of the gang plank and smoothing his hair, Peytov set looked around only to find no one, not even a task bot there to greet him. Worse yet the Emperor was nowhere in sight. Down a short corridor on the shuttle he could here the characteristic whir and beeps of an overworked replicon. He punched the code for the door into the pad and for his trouble took a half replicated boot straight into his middle. From where he landed in the hallway he saw the poor machine smoke and shut down with a withering beeeeooop.   
Surveying the massive piles of formed and half formed clothes and shoes he managed to rasp out “ What in the hell is going on?!” he then doubled over with a cough, apparently blunt force boot trauma was not something he could so easily shrug off. A mop of almost blue silver hair peered around the door from the small bathroom attached to the room.  
“Peytov good, you're here.” the emperor stepped over one of the absurd piles and rooted round in another, “ Tell me, do I go with the split surcoat or the cropped one? What about hair? Long or short? Up? Down?”   
This had to be a test he thought, some bizarre test of his ability and will in their service.  
“Shoes! Flats? Wraps? If I go with the spiked boots I might not clear all the doors..”  
Still clutching his middle in pain he gaped at them.  
“Are...are you serious?” he managed to cough out.  
“Oh you found the other one.” they plucked the boot he was still holding in his hand  
“Oh gods below you are being earnest” he he groaned and slumped into a pile of fabric, head in his hands. The emperor being...earnest, nervous, fussing over something like clothes made his guts hurt more than the boot did. Very few things in the multiverse bothered the Emperor Tavi of the Iotian Empire and this was apparently one of them.  
“Just...pick something...we have to walk back to the castle because of this stupid no portal rule.”   
He rummaged in a small side closet adjacent to his pile perch “Wear this one. Clean lines, enough buttons and..” he scooped up a pair of leather pants and boots “these.” he dumped the garments into their arms. “Hurry up and sort yourself out. You have 10 clicks until we need to be down the gangplank” with that he got up and left the room to find a medical kit for the large bruise that was forming across his midsection.

Ten minutes later Tavi strode out of the room, looking polished to perfection in their military styled tunic coat and leathers. Peytov’s mouth felt dry when he took in the long,long lines of their legs in those delicious black pants, the leather supple and dark. Their face was once again the portrait of perfect calm and superiority he had come to know.  
“My apologies for the wait.” They said curtly pulling their long leather gloves on over those long elegant, cruel fingers he dreamt of.  
“No apologies needed your grace. “ He handed them their crown, really a circlet of bright silver with small spikes set with bright opals. Tavi delicately placed it on their head.  
“You went with the short hair.”

“Easier to manage”   
“Ah, of course.” He found his umbrella again and pushed the button for the extender, now it could easily accommodate them both despite the height difference.  
Tavi placed a hand on his shoulder halting the pairs progress down the ramp  
“What is she like Peytov?” their question was almost a whisper, a momentary flicker across their placid face.  
“Very much like you I suspect. Strong willed, a superb fighter, commander, tactician. Excels at conquest but still struggles with governance of what she has, as one would expect for one so young.” he reached up and gave the hand on his shoulder a gentle squeeze “Fantastic hostess, serves a fine brandy.” he smiled softly up at them, the moment over, their face unreadable once more.  
“She obviously gets the last part from someone other than her “grand” father though. “ he muttered with a smile as they stepped out into the rain.


End file.
